Page 56 of York

“Five,” he said, nipping my earlobe. “I owe you one more.”

His free hand slid between my thighs, working my clit as he started to move again. Slowly. Almost gently.

His other hand moved from my throat to tease my breasts as I leaned back against him, my face going toward his neck.

And I sank into the sensations.

Sank into him.

Sank into the broken-open feeling in my chest.

Our breaths found a rhythm as our soft sounds escaped us while we moved.

Then the orgasm slowly stripped me bare, leaving nothing but trembling pleasure and a sensation of rightness it was hard to ignore.

With his breath in my ear, York’s body tightened as he came with me.

His face was still pressed to the side of mine, his breath ragged, as he said softly, “Six.”

I felt completely undone. By the orgasms, the intimacy, the mega-dose of oxytocin that seemed to sweep away nearly six years of non-stop stress.

Wetness filled my eyes, making me need to squeeze them shut to keep from doing something humiliating—like crying all over a guy I’d just had sex with.

My body was even less controlled, though. Little aftershocks racked me head to toe.

I expected York to pull away, to put some space between us. But he simply sat back on his butt and pulled me between his legs, his arms wrapping tightly around me, and held me until they eased.

And when they were done, he seemed to sense the need to lighten the mood. “Kinda digging the sex tent thing. Who knew?”

“I know, right? Kind of easier to maneuver around when the bed isn’t trying to pull you in.”

“Wait, this wasn’t your first tent sex, was it?”

“It was.”

“No fucking way. You lived in a tent for… years.”

“Yeah, but I hiked alone. With a very sharp knife in case anyone got ideas about wanting to have tent sex when they happened upon me.”

“I feel like that was a major missed opportunity. Fucking out in the middle of the woods, loud as you wanna be, nature sounds all around. Sounds like a great time.”

It did.

And now all I could think about was doing that with him.

Great.

That was the kind of complicated I’d been worried about. I didn’t need York suddenly starring in all my sexual fantasies. Because it was too easy a jump to go from that to him starring in my life-fantasies. Where I could count on him to take the trash out. And fix the leaky sink. And curl up in bed with me and talk about our days.

Yes, York had stepped up to the plate to be a good father. He’d been knocking it out of the park, really.

But York wasn’t husband material.

He was a gun-running biker who used to hide bodies for a living. His home was a clubhouse with a bunch of other bikers. And I’d heard the wild stories about the crazy parties that took place there. The revolving door of women.

I wasn’t naive. I knew York partook in all of that. And he might be willing to step away for a few hours here and there to dedicate himself fully to his little girl, but he wasn’t about to give that up completely.

It was risky to let myself think for even a moment that he could.